Forever and For Always
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: Austria/America/Canada, implied rest of Europe: de-anon from the kink meme, Austria chirps America and Canada for their country music, but somehow, sexiness ensues.


Forever and For Always

* * *

Austria would later claim it was because leaving America and Canada to fend for themselves in the freezing cold would be considered rude. Even though he felt nothing but scorn for America (and also other nations that reminded him of that upstart former colony, which by now comprised a lengthy list), Austria supposed that whatever happened in the past belonged to the past, and that things might have - should have - changed by now. After all, a gentleman would not hold a grudge forever.

As soon as Austria opened the front door, America let out a joyful whoop and barged right through, throwing his bag to the floor, where it was then scooped back up by Canada. The older nation immediately retracted any forgiving thoughts he might have entertained.

"Thanks again, Austria! We'll get out of your hair as soon as they find our wallets!" America called out from where he was tracking dirt into the parlor.

"You are welcome," he replied dryly, closing the door and mentally making a note to reprimand the Viennese police about their slacking vigilance. Not only did it look disgraceful on his capital city, to have two visitors pick-pocketed right outside the airport, but now he must host them for the night or risk being seen as undiplomatic to the rest of the EU.

He led them to the guestrooms where two pristine and sumptuous beds were immediately given the American (and to a lesser extent, Canadian) touch. Austria gritted his teeth at their sloppiness, but reminded them that they must show up for dinner at 6 pm exactly or they will have to wait until after the meal for cold leftovers. Seeing as they both incurred Germany's wrath by being notoriously late to meetings, Austria let himself indulge in a little satisfaction at their horrified expressions.

* * *

One peaceful hour passed by in silence before Austria's ears picked up the strains of some ungodly music from the direction of the entertainment room, which he must have forgotten to lock in a rare and not to be repeated moment of carelessness. Making a noise of disapproval, Austria put down his paperwork and stalked out of the office to the source of the sound.

When the door opened, America turned to grin shamelessly at their host, lounging in an armchair with his feet propped up on the imported coffee table. Canada waved from where he was curled up on the sofa.

"Hey, Austria!" America burst out. "Your sound system is totally awesome! I didn't even know you knew how to use one. You don't mind if _we_ use it, right?" Never mind that they had already connected their music player to the stereo and were flipping through his album collection.

Canada, who should have had more common sense than to break into a host's private rooms without permission, instead had a dreamy smile on his face as he scrolled through the mp3 player's selection, clearly in one of his unreliable moods.

Austria glared at them coldly, trying to block out the woman's husky crooning voice which was seeping into his mind with dogged intensity. "I can hear this dreadful music from my office and would appreciate it if you stopped it at once."

"This music isn't dreadful!" Canada protested, although he turned the volume down a little. "It's Shania Twain. How could you hate Shania Twain?"

"Yeah, man, how could you? She's one of the few musicians Canada has!" America piped up in his brother's defense, such as it was. "Very popular in the States! …After Taylor Swift, of course," although the last part was said under his breath.

"Popular? This is what you have come up with over the past two centuries?" Austria shook his head in disbelief. "Your Shania Twain has obviously not been classically trained, and the lyrics are unsophisticated and grammatically incorrect at best. The abuse of the violin that I hear is an affront to that instrument's noble history. And I will not attempt to describe the mess of what I assume is the melody."

He stepped over to turn off the sound system so that they will definitely hear his last statement. "In short… there is no way this noise could possibly be mistaken for music in Europe."

The brothers stared at him, aghast at this slur against Canada's most successful female country artist, nay, against the very fabric of their societies and their glorious multi-cultural heritages.

"If I catch you two in here again, you will get no dessert, ever," Austria added firmly, and they scrambled to get out of the room, music player and all. He carefully locked the door behind him, thinking (alas, incorrectly) that this will be the last time his home would suffer from the ravages of 'country music.'

* * *

Both America and Canada were on time for dinner, though America seemed unusually restrained, constantly checking his text messages with a worried frown until Canada kicked his foot under the table to make him stop. The three nations ate their meal in awkward silence, and once or twice Austria had to refrain from chuckling at their obvious delight in the dishes of his fair city. He almost pitied them for being raised by one such as England - it was a miracle they survived early childhood after being subject to that nation's foul mockeries of cuisine.

"By the way, America, Canada… what are you doing in Vienna at this time? Are you not busy with political matters at home?" Austria asked, who wondered about the purpose of their impromptu visit during the current economic crisis.

Canada froze, his eyes widening in mute terror, and America hastily swallowed his mouthful of tafelspitz.

"Umm… well, we're here for some sight-seeing."

"A-and… skiing?"

"Really…" Austria politely raised an eyebrow, finding it hard to believe that America and Canada flew all the way here just to ski and visit museums.

"Except we can't do any of that without our money."

"Hah hah… hah." Canada fiddled with his fork nervously and America flashed that blinding smile of his, perhaps hoping to persuade Austria to lend them some cash. He would be disappointed, of course.

"Hmm…" They were obviously hiding something, something that he most likely would not want to be part of, but the sachertorte was already being served, and distracted, Austria spent the next several minutes trying to teach them how to eat their dessert and sip their coffee with something resembling elegance. He would be disappointed. Of course.

* * *

The next morning, Austria woke up to the faint sounds of country music filtering in through his bedroom walls. Muttering under his breath, he pulled on a dressing robe and ran his fingers through his hair before going out to track down the errant brothers. He passed by the still-locked entertainment room, and with growing confusion, followed the sounds into the parlor. The music was not coming from a piece of plastic and metal, but from the wood and horsehair of his own instruments. For a few seconds, he gaped at the sight of America playing a priceless Kulik violin as if it were a common fiddle, Canada accompanying his brother on an even rarer double bass rescued from the destruction of both world wars.

Austria could not come up with words to describe his outrage, and he stood in the doorway, fists clenched, unable to move. How dare they touch his precious instruments, how dare they just march into his house and touch everything as if it were their own? They had done nothing to deserve this and were only abusing his generosity! He should… he should… do something… Right…

America winked at the older nation and continued his uncivilized fiddling, fingers dancing over the sleek wood and bow scraping at the strings with feverish speed. His brother kept time easily, plucking and bowing almost simultaneously, as if this were second nature to him. Despite the inhumanly fast pace they were setting, neither made a mistake, and every note sounded deliberate and sparkling clear.

The perfectly matched duet had captured his attention fully, and Austria took a hesitant step forward, not realizing until then how the tension in his neck and feet and hands dissipated in blessed movement, not realizing he had been feeling tense at all. He almost asked how they knew how to play, who taught them, but then he realized that they were just messing around, making things up as they go, and such questions became irrelevant.

Still slouching, America laughed and suddenly switched to a slower melody in a minor key. Canada paused in his accompaniment, to rejoin his brother once the tempo shot up to a fiendish speed, and the tune transformed into an infectious dance that had the two tapping their feet to the beat.

Just a few measures in, Austria recognized the song and he had to smile at their insolence. They were playing a Hungarian folk song, the czardas gypsy dance beloved by many of the greatest composers in history, despite its humble origins. He should know, for Hungary danced this song for him once, long ago.

Of course they were not playing the exact same notes, simply a variation on an imperfectly remembered tune, garbled and reshaped in their own style. But the brothers made their intention clear with this brazen demonstration…

_'You have your music and we have ours. So we are alike in this way.'_

"I understand," Austria conceded quietly, his hands up in surrender to their unspoken challenge. "Now… could you two please stop?"

They did, bows sliding off the strings with a dissonant noise. "Awww, but we were having so much fun."

Austria exhaled a long breath that he did not know he was holding. "I have no idea what possessed you to even try Monti," he said, flexing his own fingers in sympathy. "Still, it was not bad… for amateurs."

America and Canada grinned at each other, knowing that this would be the highest compliment they would ever get from Austria.

"Well, why don't you play for us, huh? Show us how the Old World tears it up!"

"After breakfast, perhaps." Austria adjusted his glasses and coughed, now scrabbling to regain his dignity. "Now, America, you need to work on your posture if you want the sound to carry farther. And Canada, your bow grip… I find it personally atrocious, but it seems to work for the style…"

* * *

It was sometime later that night when Austria noticed that the door to the music room was open ever so slightly. Walking as softly as he could towards the source of the faint sounds, he slammed his hands on the piano keys, hard.

A loud crack as bone hit wood, followed by "OW—FUCK!"

For about a minute, there was a heated and extremely embarrassed silence from under the grand piano. Then two tousled blond heads peeked out from either side, looking up at him with identical flushed and shamed faces. Between them, they were (almost) wearing one full set of clothes, the extra pieces scattered all over the Persian rug.

"I did not know music affected you so much," Austria remarked, part of him amused and the other part shocked at what he was about to say next. "…I would have played more."

He slid on to the piano bench and the two shyly crawled to either side of him, America rubbing the back of his head but still smirking, and Canada trying to pull his t-shirt down at the same time and failing.

"They do have something of France and England in them, for better or worse," he thought, meeting their burning gazes with equal intensity. "But not that much."

With one elegant hand, he threaded his fingers through Canada's hair, and the other fingers were caught and kissed by America's eager mouth. He made a soft noise of approval, shivering with some loathing and quite a bit more arousal, and their hands crept up his legs, gently and tentatively. They still had much to learn, and perhaps he should fill in the blank spaces in their education while they were his guests.

For a charge. Of course.

* * *

~Epilogue~

"Oh my God, I hurt all over," Canada grumbled as they walked back to the airport the next morning. Every part of his body ached, as if he had been skiing or hiking or skydiving or whatever America said they were doing, when all he actually did was lie on his back during this entire trip. It was an intense sort of lying down, in his defense.

"Quit yer bitching," America sighed, for he was very sore, too, not used to working this hard for money. He inspected the latest check made out to his treasury, and the number of zeros behind the first digit, combined with the other colorful checks safely tucked away in the wallet he had this whole time, would make their latest escapades almost worth it. Admiring her signature, he hoped that supremely generous nation enjoyed the surprise they left for her on the borrowed cell phone.

"Come on, if we get to Switzerland tomorrow, we can deposit the checks and go home."

"You're a slut, a lying, dishonest slut," Canada complained. He had been contemplating suicide or possibly fratricide-suicide for the past two weeks and he let America know that every time they were alone. "I can't believe I actually agreed to go with you, I must be getting infected with your sluttiness."

Completely unfazed by this rather accurate assessment of the situation, America shrugged. "Well, we're in Europe, do as they do." Actually, the more he thought about it, the more this_ 'Le Grand Tour'_ did wonders for his stress levels, and he felt ready and able to tackle the problems affecting his people after a most instructive stay in England and France… and Germany… and Italy… and so on. "Oh, admit it, you needed this vacation as much as I did, Canada."

His brother glared at him frostily, but the psychic powers he prayed for ever since he was a small colony did not manifest at that moment.

Laughing shamelessly, America changed the subject. "Hey, do you know who lives in Switzerland? It's someone you kno-ow~!"

Canada shook his head, and America threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling them closer together.

"I'm keeping you forever and for always," he whispered in a sing-song voice, leaning in for a kiss, which was promptly blocked by a hand pushing his face away.

"We will be together all of our days..." Canada rolled his eyes at this bad luck, but he did not block the next kiss.

"Wanna wake up every morning to your sweet face," America sang softly in that signature twangy accent, his forehead touching the other's so that their glasses clinked lightly. The scowl had now turned into a smile much against the owner's will, and Canada breathed out the last word of the lyrics with America, embarrassed at the attention but loving it anyway.

"Always…"

"Always…"

* * *

[Author's note: another oldie dug up from the past, because not only do I like cowboy!America, I like the idea of Canada and America being country music fans. I play the violin myself and fiddling is not easy, and fiddling music from eastern Europe even less easy. Anyway, I hope no one searching for Shania Tw*in finds this fic. Derp.]


End file.
